


I am a Ridiculous Man

by fardareismai



Series: This Rose is Extra [8]
Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Drabble Collection, F/M, Ficlets, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:40:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 19,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fardareismai/pseuds/fardareismai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of prompts and random thoughts within the universe of This Rose is Extra, a crossover with BBC's Sherlock. All of them are very odd. This is a constant work in progress. Nothing will ever be posted here that does not fit inside of the CURRENT timeline of the main story, but as the timeline extends, so will these, so spoiler warnings for both shows and my stories!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rose and Sherlock watch Mythbusters

**Author's Note:**

> These are a series of ficlets prompted by random conversations or just thoughts that I had about Rose and Sherlock. I requested prompts from Tumblr and got them.
> 
> If you're interested and don't use Tumblr (good for you, by the way, it's quite dreadful), feel free to prompt me in a comment, or a PM, or with smoke signals... however you want

 

  
"Statistical rigor," Sherlock said, getting up from the sofa and crossing the room. He turned to face Rose, glaring. "Where are the repeated experiments? This isn't science!" 

"They can't afford statistical rigor," Rose answered. "They do the math to figure out what the result will be, or they do scale tests, but when it comes to a full-sized experiment that involves driving a bus off a ramp and actually destroying the bus, you only get to do that once."

"Then why not just do the math, determine the answer, and not bother destroying a bus?"

"Because it's television, Sherlock. It's a visual medium and people doing maths in a warehouse ain't gonna bring the advertisers in."

It was Saturday night and John had a date. Rose had come to 221B Baker Street with a box of DVDs that Mickey had loaned her.

"Look, I think Sherlock will love this show. It's an American show about a bunch of mad people and inductive reasoning," he had told her.

"Sherlock Holmes is known for _de_ ductive reasoning, Mick."

"Let him watch it. Seriously, he'll love 'em."

Rose had queued up one of the episodes on the DVD player and watched alone. Sherlock had been doing something with his microscope and what she was fairly certain was a disembodied hand when she had arrived and had ignored her attempts to get him to join her on the sofa to watch. She'd been quite entertained- the people on the show (characters?) were entertaining and she followed most of the physics jargon that they spouted off. Sherlock had wandered in about halfway through the episode and sat beside her through to the end, though he'd been silent where she'd laughed. Once it was over, he began complaining about their scientific methods.

"Look, this next one involves a prison break with antacid tablets," Rose said, reading the back of the DVD case. "Seems like something that would matter to you."

Sherlock joined her on the sofa again, grumbling about bad science and absurd hypotheses and why in the world should he have to watch this absurd excuse for a television show.

Rose smiled and leaned into his side. She grabbed the arm closest to her and pulled it around her shoulders and rested her hand on his thigh and her head on his shoulder.

Sherlock's complaints immediately quieted.

He was, begrudgingly, impressed with the experiment as well as the results.

"I may need to speak with Lestrade about providing antacids to inmates," he said, digging into his pocket for his phone. Once it was out, Rose reached over and grabbed it.

"Shut up, Sherlock," Rose said, dropping her head back onto his shoulder and pulling his other arm around her waist as the next episode started. "It's Saturday night for Lestrade to. Let him have his night off."

Though he was not a man given to frivolous pursuits, Sherlock discovered that he could be entertained by almost anything with Rose in his arms.

   
  
---  
  
 


	2. Happy Birthday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one mostly came to mind because my own birthday is coming up. Props to WhoLockGal for the bit at the end!
> 
> Just for the record- all of these were written in less than two hours and have a minimum of editing. They're quick, dirty, and a bit silly, thus the name of the collection.

"So tomorrow's the day, yeah?" John asked from the door of the kitchen where Sherlock was examining a blood sample from a man who had apparently dropped dead of Ergotism- a disease that hadn't been seen since practically the dark ages. Sherlock had been called in to determine why a modern upper-middle class urbanite would die from a disease most often known to affect rural, Medieval peasants. 

"Mmmm?" Sherlock muttered, not really listening.

"Rose's birthday party, that's tomorrow, right?"

"Mmm, s'pose so," Sherlock muttered. Grain, that was what Ergotism came from. It was a fungus that effected rye, for the most part. Rye that was kept wet. Why would a man in London keep rye?

Sherlock picked up his phone and put a call in to Lestrade. "The victim from this morning, does he make his own liquor? Beer?" Home brewing was becoming a popular hobby for the wealthy urban set. "If he does, see where he keeps his malts. I suspect he keeps them in a room with a leak. He may be trying a new type of beer- rye beer specifically. Let me know." He rang off without allowing Lestrade time to respond.

Sherlock turned to John again. "Boring, really. Too obvious, that one."

"You don't know that you got it right until Lestrade calls you back."

Sherlock gave him the look that simply said 'don't be stupid, John.'

"So what did you get her?" John asked, returning to the conversation at hand.

"Get who?"

"Rose."

"Why would I get her something?"

"Her birthday party is tomorrow, you're supposed to bring a gift."

"Is it?" Sherlock looked legitimately surprised. John should have known he wasn't listening. "She didn't mention it."

"Well no, it's a surprise party."

"Was I invited?"

John looked at him carefully. Sherlock wasn't joking, he was, legitimately, shocked to hear that Rose was having a party.

"Yeah, I think you were. About two weeks ago? Text from Mickey?"

"I don't read texts from Mickey, he's always trying to invite me for a match at the pub," Sherlock said dismissively.

"Which you should do at some point, he's Rose's best friend," John said, knowing that the argument was lost from moment one. "But the point is that he invited you to Rose's party, and it's tomorrow, and you'll have to bring a gift."

Sherlock frowned for a moment as John watched. Sherlock sifted through his mind for what girls liked to receive as gifts and for the first time in a very long time, he drew a complete blank. He purchased flowers for his mother once a year, but nothing else. He'd never bought a gift for Mrs. Hudson or Molly or Sally Donovan or The Woman- the only women who were continually a part of his life.

Quicksilver eyes met blue with something akin to fear. "I have no idea what to get her," Sherlock admitted.

John laughed. "Come on then," he said, grabbing his friend by the upper arm and steering him out the door. "We're off to the jeweler, aren't we?"

~?~?~?~?~

There's been an argument at the jeweler.

"A charm bracelet?"

"No, John, she works with her hands, nothing that might get in the way."

"Earrings?"

"Too boring."

"She's not you, Sherlock, she might be okay with boring."

"No."

Sherlock had wandered the shop and found nothing that spoke to him. He'd proceeded to drag John to jewelry shops all over town, believing that he would know what was right when he saw it. Finally, at a little artist's stall in the park, he found what he realized he'd been looking for.

~?~?~?~?~

Sherlock's heart was thudding thickly in his chest. He had wrapped the little box himself rather than allowing the woman at the stall to wrap it for him. It was more clumsily done than it would have been if she'd done it, but it had felt... important, somehow, to do it himself. He saw the collection of beautifully wrapped gifts that awaited Rose though, and began to wish he'd allowed himself to be talked out of his mad notion.

Rose was to arrive in 10 minutes with Jackie, Pete and Tony. They'd rented out he back room of one of her favorite Italian restaurants and her entire Torchwood team, Martha, Molly, Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, John and Sherlock were there, waiting to surprise Rose.

When she arrived, everyone cried "Surprise!" and "Happy Birthday!" She had shouted her surprise and thanks, had wept a few tears of gratitude and had hugged everyone in the room. She'd come to Sherlock last, hiding in the corner as he was.

"Thank you, Sherlock," she'd said, eyes shining bright, cheeks flushed with pleasure. She'd wound her arms about his neck and pulled him to her for a hug. He'd brought his arms around her waist and, with one large hand spanning her back, had held her close for a long moment, breathing her in. She'd stepped back sooner than Sherlock had liked, but he let her go.

Everyone sat down to the meal. The food was excellent, the wine flowed, and the conversation was enjoyable. Even Sherlock managed to have a good time, though he did not much like parties.

When dinner had been eaten, coffee was poured and Rose began to open gifts. As each one was opened (a stationary set from John, tickets to a concert from Mickey, a diamond bracelet that she would only be able to wear on special occasions from Jackie and Pete), Sherlock felt his tension mount higher. She left his to last.

"Best for last," she said with a cheeky grin at him.

Sherlock tried to smile, but he suspected it came out more as a grimace. She was careful with the paper, trying not to tear it.

"Come on, Rose, just rip into it," Mickey cried.

Rose glanced at Sherlock, who nodded. "Just open it, it's fine," he said around what felt like a golf ball in his throat.

Rose tore the paper to find the little gold box. She opened the box to find a delicate silver chain with a pendant on it. It was an azurite stone with malachite threads running through it set in the center of a circle, and on the outside, a tiny white pearl.

"It's... there's an artist, and she designed the entire solar system in these pendants," Sherlock tried to explain. "I wanted you to have... it's the Earth and its moon. I wanted you to have home, no matter where you go," he finished, lamely.

Rose looked up at him, her eyes glittering bright. "It's perfect," she said, and he could hear the catch in her voice.

"Don't cry," he pleaded. "Don't do that."

She laughed and launched herself at him, kissing him in front of everyone. The crowd of their friends sent up a loud cheer.

She pulled away from him as the restaurant owner brought in a lovely Tiramisu for them all.

~?~?~?~?~

Sherlock was walking Rose back to her apartment, his hand wrapped around hers.

"I have one other gift for you," he said, quietly.

"What you gave me was perfect."

"Maybe, but there's one more thing, if that's all right." He stopped walking, let go of her hand, and dug into his pocket. He came out with a key. "This is the key to Baker Street," he said, quietly. "Would you be willing to keep it... keep it with your other key? It's just stainless steel, not an alien alloy. It's just a flat on Earth, not a time-and-space ship. But I want you to have it, if you want it?" This last came out as a question. He'd never done something like this- wasn't even sure what this was, but it felt right. He wanted his key to live next to her heart. Not replace the key she'd held all these years for the Doctor, but to add one beside it. His key.

She removed the chain that she always wore, took his key, and threaded it on beside the other. Wordlessly, she handed him the chain and turned away from him and lifted her golden curls out of his way. If Sherlock allowed his fingers to linger too long on the warm skin of her neck as he fastened the necklace on, she did not comment.  
  
---  
  
 


	3. Cooking Adventures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one mostly came from Hubby and WhoLockGal... who are conspiring to get me to write more. Jerks.

"This is vile," Sherlock said. 

"Don't be rude," Rose corrected absently. "Or at least, if you're going to be rude, be quieter."

"I could make better Italian Wedding Soup."

"No you couldn't."

Sherlock looked up from the disgusting, watery muck in his bowl to Rose's face. She'd said this last with such conviction that he wondered where she had her information from. "Why do you say that?"

"Sherlock, there is no way that you have even the faintest idea of how to cook. You can barely make a pot of tea without burning down your kitchen."

"Rose Tyler," Sherlock began in indignation, "I am a chemist. Cooking is merely so much chemistry. Besides," he continued, warming to his topic, "I once worked undercover in the kitchen of a five star restaurant for six months while I was tracking down a blackmailer." No need to tell her he'd washed dishes.

Somehow (and he would never be certain precisely how- it'd had something to do with her eyes sparkling in a certain way, or her tongue peeking through her teeth, or the way she nibbled at her bottom lip) Sherlock had agreed to make dinner for them at his flat this evening.

Every pot, pan, cooking sheet, bowl, vessel and cup seemed to now be out on his kitchen counter, dirty. Nothing had come out the way he'd intended. The pasta sauce had burned. The pasta itself had cooked so long it had practically disintegrated. The roast was tough and flavourless (he'd forgotten to season it).

The only thing that he had managed was bread. He'd made a very lovely loaf of bread and completely failed at every other thing he had put his hand to.

Sherlock Holmes did not often fail. He had failed tonight, however. Rose was due in 15 minutes. He would not even get the mess put away before she walked through his door. He could not deny to her that he had failed.

As if on cue, he heard the door to his flat open.

"Sherlock?" she called out.

"Kitchen," he muttered. Might as well face it.

She came in and took a look around. "Busy day?"

He didn't bother to answer, nor did he look at her.

"Looks like a nice loaf of bread," she said, walking over to where it sat in pride of place on the table. "Smells nice. Let's get some supper going then." She then proceeded to slice the bread, dig some peanut butter and conserve from his cooler and his pantry, pour two glasses of milk, and set food down in front of both of them.

While they ate, Sherlock finally found the courage to look at Rose. She was looking at the mess in his kitchen in an analytical way. Could she see where he'd made his mistakes? Had it been anyone's mess but his, he'd have tried it, but since he'd lived it, he didn't need to.

"Some of those pans need soaking," Rose began without preamble. "We'll fill them with water then set them aside, then we'll wash everything else. Do you prefer to wash dishes or dry? Actually, you'll have to dry and put away since I don't yet know my way around the kitchen. That's better though, I prefer to wash. Once that's done, the pans should have soaked long enough and will be ready to wash as well. Then we'll wipe the surfaces and everything should be fine after that, yeah?"

Sherlock looked at her in utter amazement.

"What?" she asked.

Without answering, Sherlock pulled her in for a long, slow kiss that tasted of peanut butter and orange marmalade.

"Yes," he said when he finally let her go. "Let's clean the kitchen."  
  
---  
  
 


	4. Babysitting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prompt from istalkyoualways: Sherlock gets roped into looking after tony and he takes him to a crime scene. If you want :)

  
_Who_ is watching Tony?" Mickey asked, certain he had misheard Rose. 

"Sherlock," she said shortly. "Duck!"

Mickey dropped and Rose hit the bipedal lizard that had been sneaking up behind him in the face with an electric jolt like a tazer.

"You mean Sherlock and John are watching him," Mickey continued, getting up and moving so that he was back-to-back with Rose.

"John's at the surgery, it's just Sherlock."

"Are you mad?" Mickey asked as they simultaneously fired at more of the lizards that were beginning to surround them.

"Probably," Rose said, digging around in the pocket of her jeans for a device that would send out a sonic pulse to incapacitate the entire group. "But honestly, what choice did I have? Cover your ears," she warned as set off the device.

~?~?~?~?~

"Why couldn't Wose take me to see the aliens?" Tony Tyler was dwarfed by John's chair, but he sat, straight-backed and solemn as he questioned Sherlock.

"Because you might get hurt." Sherlock was leaned back in his chair, fingertips together, index fingers resting against his lips.

"No," Tony answered, arrogant that his knowledge far surpassed that of the adult in the room. "Wose says that aliens are nice."

"Not _all_ aliens are nice. Surely she's told you stories of bad aliens?"

"She said they aren't in this universe, they're on the other side with the Doctor."

Sherlock hated discussing the Doctor. Tony held the alien in a certain reverence and Rose had a long history with him. Sherlock felt reasonably confident that whatever it was that he was building with her was strong, but he could not deny the twinge of discomfort that he always got when talking about her alien friend.

"Only one kind of bad alien, is there?"

"Only one kind that Wose is scared of. Why didn't she take me to see the aliens?" There was a not of accusation in the child's voice, as though Sherlock were somehow at fault for his sister's leaving him behind.

Rose had warned him that she would have Tony for the day, but had asked if he wanted to join them at the park. Sherlock had agreed, surprising even himself with the fact. He and the boy had bonded a time or two, and he did not mind time with the child, and time with Rose was always high on his priorities.

While at the park, however, Rose had received a call from Torchwood and had been forced to leave. She'd had to leave Tony in his care. Neither she nor Sherlock had been completely certain of this decision, but there were no other options, so she had given in to practicality, if not sensibility.

Now, here sat Sherlock, trying to explain the dangers of aliens to a stubborn and illogical five-year-old. This was precisely why he had never wanted children.

Sherlock's mobile sounded. He picked it up and checked the ID. "This is an inconvenient time, Lestrade."

"Is it ever a convenient time for you?"

"What do you need?"

"There's been a burglary."

"Not your division," Sherlock responded.

"No," Lestrade agreed, "but it's big. British Museum. It's a marble statue of the Goddess Fortuona. Please come by?"

Sherlock glanced at Tony. He knew that Rose had taken the boy to the British Museum, so he must be willing to go, and there were no bodies or dangerous creatures...

"I'll be bringing someone along with me."

"John?"

"No."

"Rose?"

"No need to sound so hopeful, Inspector, and no."

"You have other friends?"

"I will be there in 20 minutes, Inspector," Sherlock said and hung up. He looked at Tony again. "We are going to the Museum, Tony."

"Will there be aliens there?"

"No," Sherlock said, with a sigh.

"Is Wose going to meet us there?"

"Probably not, but I'll text her and see."

"Do I have to go?"

Sherlock was actively trying to force the child into his coat as this question was asked. "Yes," he answered as he zipped the boy's red coat for him.

~?~?~?~?~

"Hello, Freak," Sergeant Donovan greeted Sherlock when he arrived.

"If you can't say nothin' nice, don't say nothin' at all," came a lilting voice from Sherlock's side.

Sally looked down and saw that, holding onto Sherlock's hand was a child of approximately five years old.

"What the... What are you doing with that child?" Sally shrieked.

"I am..." Sherlock trailed off. He couldn't recall the word.

"He's babysitting me because my sister had to go to work," the child supplied. Apparently he'd been told not to bandy aliens about with people he didn't know.

"This is Rose's brother, Tony," Sherlock introduced. "Tony, this is Sergeant Donovan, and she doesn't like me very much."

"I don't like some people, but I don't call 'em names. 'Least not to their face."

"Mouth of babes," Sherlock murmured, seeing Donovan flush. "Come now, Tony, we're going to meet Sergeant Donovan's boss and find out what's going on."

The detective team entered the museum and found Lestrade among the marbles.

"Sherlock, it's right through there. Sorry to call you, but the curator is worried sick and..." Lestrade trailed off, noticing Sherlock's companion for the first time. "Who's this then?" he asked, in a jovial voice, kneeling down and extending a hand to the child.

Good with children, Sherlock noted. Not a fact he'd have known about DI Lestrade otherwise.

"I'm Tony Tyler, Wose's little brother. Mr. Sherlock is watching me 'cause Wose got called into work."

"Mr. Sherlock is babysitting, eh?" Lestrade said with a teasing glint in his eye as he glanced at the detective.

"Hush, Lestrade," Sherlock muttered. "Come along, Tony, let's go see what the Inspector has missed.

They entered the room with the marbles. Sherlock could see an issue with the situation- these pieces were human-sized and made of solid marble. It would be impossible to carry one off without wheels- a cart. Sherlock got down on the floor to see if he could find the scuff marks that he was certain were there- tracks of rubber tires on the polished floor.

"What'cha doin'?"

"Looking for scuff marks."

"Why?"

"Because they will lead us to the missing statue."

"How?"

"Because someone had to have carted it off last night with a wheeled conveyance. They would have been seen leaving the museum with it, so they must have taken it somewhere to disguise, or it is still in the museum, which I suspect."

"Why?"

"Because that would be simpler for them."

"Was it aliens took the statue?"

"I sincerely doubt it." Sherlock found the scuff marks he was looking for. He proceeded to follow them, grabbing Tony's hand as he passed by to pull the small child along with him.

They entered the museum's storage room. These floors were no longer polished, so the scuff marks would not show up. He glanced down at Tony, the boy was clever, he could probably help. "I think we're looking for something made of white stone about as tall as your sister. It might be covered with a sheet or with paper or something. Think you can help me find it?"

"Yeah," the boy said, confidently.

"And if you find something like that, you'll yell for me?"

"Yeah," the boy said, sounding excited. Yelling indoors was a treat.

"Good," Sherlock said, and the two of them split up.

Fifteen minutes later, he heard the boy's shout. "I think I found it Mr. Sherlock!"

"Stay where you are, but keep shouting, I'll find you," Sherlock answered.

Tony responded with a wordless roar that continued unabated until Sherlock found him and shook his shoulder. "Stop!" the older man yelled, and the child finally quieted.

"That was fun, can we do it again? Bit like hide-and-go-seek."

"No, we can't do it again," Sherlock said, wearily.

The child had, in fact, found two sheet-covered items that fit his description. When Sherlock removed the sheets he found two nearly identical statues. He scratched the surface of one, and it flaked away- plaster, not marble.

They found Lestrade and Sherlock explained that whoever was responsible had had a fake statue made to put in the place of the real one (for which he or she probably had a buyer lined up already). Something had happened to keep them from putting the fake in place. Sherlock instructed the police force to dust both statues for fingerprints and arrest whoever they matched.

He then took Tony Tyler back to his flat in Baker Street.

~?~?~?~?~

For two weeks after that, rather than talking about becoming an alien-hunter, Tony Tyler told everyone who asked that he was going to be a detective when he grew up.

   
  
---


	5. Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prompt from pinkliliflower: Oh! Jealous Sherlock would be great. Rose does like her pretty boys.

John noticed that there were police cars around the building where Rose and Mickey lived as he walked back from the surgery one afternoon. Frowning, he climbed the stairs to the third floor when both Rose and Mickey's flats were. Mickey's was the first door he came to, but he could see that the commotion was down the hall- Rose's place.

John ran over and found Sally Donovan at the door.

"What happened? Is she all right?"

Sally looked at him in surprise. "Where's Sherlock? I'm surprised he wasn't here first. He's not sending you to do his dirty work again, is he? Not on this one. I thought things were different with him and Rose."

"Just tell me what happened," John said, irritably.

"It's really not that major, honestly- maybe Himself decided it wasn't a big enough case to get involved in- just a burglary. Someone broke in, knicked her telly, DVD player, some jewelry and took off."

"And why are you here? This isn't exactly your division."

"No, but Greg wanted to come. He likes her, Rose. And it's going to get picked up by the papers soon, no doubt."

John, somehow, didn't think that Sherlock would have allowed this investigation to happen without his presence. "Can I go in?" he asked.

"Sure, go ahead."

The apartment was a tip. Part of that came from the original search for valuable items, but the rest was from the police investigation. There were chalk marks on the walls, paper coffee cups all over every surface, and pieces of balled-up notebook paper littering the floor. John made his way around the PCs to the sitting room and found Rose, Mickey and Lestrade directing troops.

Rose turned and saw John standing in her sitting room. "Oh, hello, John," she said with a smile. "Did Greg call you? Where's Sherlock?" She turned to the DI. "I didn't think this was worth your team's time, much less Sherlock's. There are far too many overprotective men in my life."

Lestrade shook his head. "Wasn't me, might have been someone on my team though. You to are famous, you are."

"No," John said, "no one called me... us... I just saw the police cars out front and I wanted to check that you and Mickey were all right."

Rose looked a bit surprised. "Oh yeah," she said, breezily, "we're fine. You can stay if you like, it's a bit exciting right now, but I do think that Scotland Yard has everything under control."

John frowned at Rose. "You're telling me there was a break-in at your flat and you didn't call Sherlock Holmes?"

"No," she said, as though he were stupid, "I called the police. If they had taken my work laptop, I might have called Sherlock, but the police and my insurance company are plenty enough people to have in my flat just now."

"Sherlock is your boyfriend."

"Yeah, and he can be my boyfriend when there are a few less people in my flat."

"Your boyfriend, the detective."

"Yes, my boyfriend the detective who told me last week that a missing person case was too boring for him to get involved with. What is he going to say about some kids breaking into my flat to take my TV? Not just boring, insulting. I'll call him in a bit."

John shook his head and left the flat. Outside her door, he pulled out his mobile.

_Break-in at Rose's flat. Get here now._

_-John_

After 10 minutes (he must have taken a cab, good) Sherlock was pounding up the stairs to Rose's flat. He reached John's side and looked about with a frown.

"What are Scotland Yard's worst doing here?" Sherlock asked John.

"Rose called them."

"But she called you first?"

"She didn't call me at all, I just noticed the cars in front of the building and came up to check on her."

John watched the news hit his best friend. Another man might not have been able to see the change in that aristocratic face, but John could. Closer than ever John had been with his own sibling, and certainly closer than the Holmes siblings, John could see the anger building behind the younger man's calm features.

"Do you suppose she's available to speak to?"

John nodded silently, afraid that anything he said might unleash that vicious temper against him. He believed that the detective's feeling for Rose would keep him from doing anything he might later regret, though his tongue might lash sharper than it should.

Sherlock stalked into the flat, following the sound of Rose's voice. He brushed past PCs without an apology or acknowledgment.

Rose looked up to see Sherlock glowering in the entrance to her sitting room. "Oh for god's sake," she murmured irritably. "My flat just got tossed, how many detectives do I need on the scene?"

"May I speak to you?" Sherlock asked in a quiet voice. "In private?" Without giving her time to answer, he took her wrist and pulled her back into her bedroom. The PC that was taking note of her jewelry was ousted with a glare and Sherlock shut the door behind them.

Sherlock stood, facing the door with Rose at his back, trying to control himself. Knowing that she had called someone else when she was in trouble brought a wash of horrific red anger through his mind. He wanted to scream at her, but he did not want to scare her. He very nearly wanted to weep, and he had not shed tears since his teens.

"Why didn't you call me?" he asked, still not turning to look at her.

"Sherlock?"

He whirled around to face her, set his hands on her shoulders, bent his face to hers and asked again, "why didn't you call me? You called Mickey and Lestrade but not me. Why?"

She reached up to touch his face, but Sherlock flinched away before she could make contact.

"Mickey was with me when I got home, and I didn't call Lestrade specifically, I just called the police. He came because it was me."

"But why didn't you call me?"

"It's not a big enough case for you. It's just... ordinary."

"Don't you understand, Rose? It doesn't matter if the case is big enough when it's you."

"I'm sorry," she said, quietly. "I didn't think you'd want to be here as a detective and... I wasn't sure how comfortable you'd be being here as a boyfriend. I'm still not sure what to make of all of this."

Sherlock shook his head then. "Neither am I. But I want you to call me. No matter what, just call. Please?"

Sherlock Holmes had never begged in his life. He did not grovel. He did not plead. He would have been on his knees to elicit this promise from Rose, however.

But he didn't need to, because she understood.

   
  
---


	6. Boyfriend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An anonymous prompt from Tumblr: Rose introudcing Sherlock as her boyfriend to Pete, Jackie and Tony (after the party incident where Jackie was obviously to drunk to remember :P)

Really, it'd only been three days since Sherlock had had a case, but it had been a smallish one and hadn't distracted him much. Rose sighed. She'd signed up for this... _again_. Falling for... No, being _involved_ with a brilliant, mad, difficult man. The tics had changed, but the fact was the same- sometimes she was forced to deal with the equivalent of an adult toddler.

At least this one wasn't nine centuries removed from his toddler years, just a couple of decades.

John walked on one side of Sherlock while Rose walked on the other. She'd tried to take his hand, but he'd shaken her off and shoved his hands into his coat pockets. Rose rolled her eyes at the childish behavior, but continued walking. Sherlock needed something to occupy himself, and she and John had been at a loss for anything but a walk in the park. Hopefully they'd come up with something while they were out.

"The aquarium?" Rose ventured.

"I haven't been to the aquarium in years," John responded.

"No chance," Sherlock groused. "It's for children."

"And no one around here is acting like a child at all," Rose muttered, earning herself a glare from Sherlock and a chuckle from John.

The three continued on in silence for about 10 more minutes. They were passing a play park when a familiar voice from the top of the slide cried "Wose!"

Rose, John and Sherlock all turned their heads to see Tony Tyler whizzing down the slide. From the bottom he used his momentum to race to his sister's arms. Rose scooped him up and spun him around twice, just for the joy of hearing him giggle.

"Hello my darling," she said cheerfully, giving him a smacking kiss on the cheek. "What are you doing here?"

"He's got a playdate every Saturday at this park, I'm sure I told you."

Rose turned with Tony still in her arms to see her mum and dad approaching. "Hello you two," she said with a smile.

"Hello yourself," Jackie said with a raised eyebrow in the direction of John and Sherlock.

Rose could take a hint. "You've both met John and Sherlock, of course. The party in September."

"Also that time in the hospital," John said, shaking Pete's hand.

"Right." Rose nodded. "I wasn't around for that one. Bit out of it at the time."

"Mr. Sherlock told me a story about you and a dog that wasn't an alien. He didn't know any of the Doctor stories. You should tell him some of them," Tony said, leaning his head on Rose's shoulder.

Rose laughed. "Maybe I will, but he's not as good a listener as you are."

"Wose? Is Mr. Sherlock your boyfriend?"

Rose suddenly felt like a hot spotlight was on her. She'd referred to Sherlock as her friend, or her plus-one, and once (when Jackie was drunk) as her boyfriend, but this would be the first public declaration of the fact. She glanced over at the man in question, but he was watching her with just as much interest in how she would answer the question as anyone else.

Everyone seemed to be waiting for her.

Rose took a deep breath. She directed the answer at Tony, however, and chose to ignore everyone else's interest. "Yes, Tony, Sherlock is my boyfriend."

"Okay," Tony chirped. "Can I go back to the swings now?"

"Of course," Rose said, letting him down.

Once the child was gone, Rose glanced around at the group. John was smirking, more at Sherlock than at her. Sherlock was quite unreadable. Pete looked unsurprised, and Jackie looked calculating.

Naturally, Jackie was the first to break the silence. "You should all come over for tea this evening. We should all take this opportunity to get to know each other better, don't you think?"

Rose and John had just opened their mouths to agree when Sherlock interrupted. "As much as we would very much like to do just that, Rose, John and I have a very urgent appointment at the... aquarium. We must go, else we'll be late." With that he was off- not quite running, but close enough.

John and Rose watched him go in amusement. "Coward," Rose muttered, making John chuckle.

"You do have a type, don't you, sweetheart?" Jackie asked acidly.

"Guess I do," Rose answered unapologetically.

"Well, you bring him 'round for tea one of these days, all right? No plasma storms in the Horsehead Nebula."

"Will do, Mum. Love you." Rose kissed her parents on the cheeks and she and John jogged after Sherlock.

"Horsehead Nebula?" John asked.

"My last boyfriend was an astronomer. He got out of tea once by saying that he and I had to watch a plasma storm through the university's telescopes. It was too far away to see anything, but he swore it'd be more romantic than a day with my Mum."

John laughed as they caught up with Sherlock.  
  
---


	7. Little Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from istalkyoualways: Maybe Tony, Sherlock and Mycroft?
> 
> Tony is a popular little dude!

She hadn't had to trick him into coming to the party this time. Maybe it was because he knew Mycroft would be there and he wanted to rub his brother's face in the relationship that Mycroft so disapproved of a bit. Maybe he just wanted to be with her. Maybe it was the fact that she'd sent him a picture of the dress she'd be wearing and his very accurate imagination had put her body inside of it and it had been stunning.

His imagination wasn't half what he pretended it was sometimes. Not when it came to Rose Tyler in red satin anyway.

He'd asked her to dance first this time, and had proved to her that he'd been practicing. She'd been quite impressed and he had leaned down and whispered (making her shiver) that he enjoyed dancing. Particularly with her.

Maybe it was an experiment to see if she could spontaneously combust on the dance floor.

They had taken a break from dancing, however and were standing to the side with glasses of champagne, talking to Jake and Ianto when a ball of blue and black energy from somewhere to the left collided with Sherlock's knees.

"Wose! Mr. Sherlock! Jake! Mr. Toe! Guess what?" The voice from around their knees was overfast and just nearly hysterical with excitement and, Rose suspected, sugar.

"Miss Clara has been letting you get into the chocolate eclairs, I think," Rose said with a smile for her little brother.

"No," Tony said, lower lip poking out, and covered with chocolate giving lie to his statement.

"Oh no?" Rose asked with a smile. Her brother was precious- particularly dressed in a miniature blue suit as he was- but he would need to go to bed soon, and he'd never sleep in his current state. Rose knelt down, pleased for the slit in her gown at this moment, so that she could look Tony in the eye. "I happen to know a detective who can probably figure out if you've been eating chocolate," she glanced up at Sherlock and raised an eyebrow. "Don't I?"

Sherlock knelt beside her, looking Tony over. Jake and Ianto pulled up chairs to watch the proceedings- they promised to be entertaining.

"I can see from the state of your shoes," Sherlock began, pointing to the boy's scuffed dress shoes, "that you have been running about without a care for your clothes. I can see from your knees that you have been crawling on your hands and knees, probably under the tablecloth on the buffet. You have taken off your tie no less than three times and put it back on, but it's a clip-on, so that's all right." Sherlock was smiling at this point, and Rose was shaking with silent giggles.

"Now," Sherlock continued, "as for the case of the missing desserts, I'll need some tools." From his pocket, he withdrew a small roll of tools- not his main set that was in his coat, but a small number that included a magnifying lens, pair of tweezers, and his most useful lock-pick. Just as he was about to withdraw his magnifying lens, however, he heard an entirely unwelcome voice from behind himself.

"What are you doing, Brother-mine?"

Sherlock felt the old resentment bubble up inside him but he met the two pairs of Tyler eyes before him, one set blue and nearly worshipful, the other amber and sparking with mirth and affection, and his strength was bolstered against his brother's attack on his self-respect.

"I am solving a mystery, Mycroft," Sherlock said without bothering to look around. "Tony Tyler, I'd like to introduce you to my brother, Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft, this is Tony, your host's youngest son."

Mycroft glared down his nose at the two adults kneeling on the floor with the child. He did not like children- noisy, illogical, sticky things that they were. What was his brother doing with this child? Was this more to do with the Tyler woman whose game Mycroft had still not been able to determine?

"And what great mystery are you solving?" Mycroft asked with a sneer.

"Mr. Tyler, here is a suspect in a burglary," Sherlock said.

"Wose says I took desserts from the table, but I never did," Tony said.

"Then why were you crawling under the buffet table, sweeheart?" Rose asked.

"I was chasing Wose-puppy."

The fact that Jackie and Pete had kept the little Yorkie that had belonged to the original Jackie had bothered Rose for some time when she had been trapped here. That they hadn't bothered to change the creature's name was worse. Tony loved her, however, and would chase her all over the house for hours. He always made the distinction between 'Wose' and 'Wose-puppy,' which her parents weren't always polite enough to do.

"And you caught her," Mycroft said. He had not knelt and continued to look over the scene with distaste. "Her hair is all over your jacket which you did not remove before going on your quest."

"Wow!" Tony said, impressed. "You're very clever, almost as clever as Mr. Sherlock."

Sherlock smirked at his brother. He finished withdrawing his magnifying lens (he didn't need it, but he was showing off, after all, which was what he was best at).

"What're those for?" Tony asked, looking at the tools.

"This is a magnifying lens- it makes small things look big." Sherlock demonstrated for Tony.

"We use those sometimes in school. You can start a fire with them if you get the light through them."

Rose rolled her eyes. Tony was very fond of science since Pete had told him he'd have to excel in it to join Torchwood someday and fight aliens. Sometimes he focused on the wrong bits of his science class, however.

"Those are more of my tools," Sherlock continued, indicating the other tools. "I have many more in my coat, but these are the ones I can't be without. Now," he continued, holding the lens over the little boy's face, "I can see traces of chocolate around your lips and," he pulled the boys hand to him and smelled his fingers, "I can smell pastry and cream on your hands. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Tony's little shoulders slumped. "Okay, I ate some of the dessert. But I shared with Wose-puppy too."

"Not chocolate, I hope," Rose said, worried.

"No, we learned that in science class too. She got the strawberry ones, I got the chocolate."

"The dog is going to be sick all over the house tonight," Rose murmured, pleased that she did not live here any longer. "Okay, Tony, that means that you need to go and apologize to Miss Clara, isn't that right?"

Tony nodded, dejectedly.

Rose wanted to cheer him up a bit. "If she says you have enough time before your bath and bed though, come find me, and you can dance with me, if you like."

Tony's face lit up. "Okay, I'll make sure she says yes!" With that, he ran off to find his nanny.

Rose and Sherlock straightened from the floor, Sherlock slipping his tools back into his pocket.

"Did you come to talk to me for any particular reason?" Sherlock asked Mycroft.

"I came to ask Ms. Tyler for a dance, but it seems her card is full," Mycroft said, and with that he disappeared into the crowd again.  
  
---


	8. Six Months

It was a strange compulsion that had Sherlock calling Angelo to make a dinner reservation for two that evening. He wasn't one to keep track of dates. He forgot birthdays. Christmas snuck up on him every year. If Mrs. Hudson didn't remind him for three straight days (and John for a week or more), he would never remember to pay his rent. He simply could not think in terms of the calendar.

But for some reason, this date had stuck. He knew what had happened to blaze the date across his mind, but why the date itself mattered, he could not say. Six months to the day, John Watson had stopped his car on the road outside of Grimpen Village to pick up two people, one of whom would change everything.

He sent her a text.

_Dinner? 7 tonight. I'll pick you up. Dress nice._

_-SH_

He waited for the response. He knew that John would have made him call, but he preferred to text.

_Yeah, all right. See you then._

_}-^-_

Sherlock smiled to himself.

~?~?~?~?~

She was wearing a dress. Sherlock knew, in that analytical portion of his mind that worked 24/7, that it was a simple, fairly plain dress- green cotton with a heart-shaped neckline, hem just above her knees with a soft white cardigan over top- but he could not seem to get past the fact that she was wearing a dress. He had seen her in formal attire- long gowns and high heels- but this suited her better, in his opinion.

She had gone to the effort for _him_ , not simply because it was expected.

"Sherlock?"

His eyes found her face again, and he realized that he had been staring for much longer than was appropriate.

"Um... yes, well. You look lovely."

"Thanks, you look nice too," she said with a smile. "I was a bit worried- not really sure what the occasion was, so I thought I'd go with something that would hopefully work wherever. So are we on a case?"

Sherlock blinked for a moment. "No," he said finally. "This is a... a date."

Rose frowned for a moment at him. "You asked me on a date?"

Sherlock was completely lost. "That's what people do, isn't it? Go on dates with their..." He trailed off, still uncomfortable with the word. Rose watched him with wide eyes, not giving an inch. He swallowed and continued, "girlfriends."

Rose grinned, and Sherlock thought that, perhaps, he could learn to say the word without stuttering if he received that kind of reward every time.

"Yeah, I suppose it is what people do... just seemed a bit ordinary for us."

"Tonight we're undercover as ordinary people," Sherlock said with a smile. He offered her his arm and they descended the steps of her building.

   
  
---


	9. Sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prompt from cookiesarebest over on Tumblr: Maybe a ficlet where Rose or Sherlock get sick and the other has to help them get better?

Rose could hear the shouting from outside the door of 221 Baker Street: Sherlock's low voice, raised in anger and Mrs. Hudson's shrill responses. She did not bother knocking, knowing that it would not be heard. She opened the door and peeked her head in to try to determine what was happening when she heard a crash of breaking china up the stairs and Mrs. Hudson's angry shrieks starting again. A door (the one to Sherlock's sitting room, Rose suspected) slammed and Mrs. Hudson stalked down the stairs in high dudgeon, muttering and cursing to herself.

"Martha, are you all right?" Rose asked.

Mrs. Hudson looked up and finally seemed to notice Rose standing in the entry way. "Oh Rose!" she cried in apparent delight. "That stupid man up there is being a bigger fool than usual. He's like a child, bit of the sniffles and he's dying."

"Oh dear," Rose murmured. She remembered how terrible the Doctor could be when he wasn't feeling well, and had a feeling that Sherlock would be similar. Probably with more yelling and less whining though. "Well, thank you for taking care of him," she said to Mrs. Hudson. "I'll take over from here. You're too good to him." Rose gave the older woman a hug, then ascended the stairs with some trepidation.

She opened the door to find Sherlock curled in his chair, coughing into a handkerchief and sniffling. He was wearing flannel jim-jam bottoms and a white undershirt and his dressing gown. His hair was a bird's nest of curls. His cheeks were pale under a feverish flush and his eyes glittered.

He was, actually, quite endearing this way, and Rose had to bite down a smile. "You shouldn't shout at Mrs. Hudson, she just wants to help," she said by way of a greeting.

Sherlock looked up at her and glared. "What are you doing here?" he snapped.

"It's Saturday, I always drop by on you and John on Saturday."

"You should have called first," he griped. "I'd have told you not to come."

"And I'd have come anyway because you don't get to tell me what to do, Sherlock Holmes. Now, did you drink any of the tea that Mrs. Hudson brought you, or did you just have a temper tantrum about it?"

Sherlock glared at her rather than answering. His mouth very nearly formed a pout and Rose was forced to bit back another smile.

"Then I'll make you some tea. I'll also text Mickey to pick up some staples for us since you've probably run John off for the whole weekend and Mrs. Hudson won't speak to you until you're more yourself. Though, honestly," Rose continued as she went to the kitchen to begin the tea preparations, "why she talks to you when you are yourself is a wonder to me. Bit of masochism, I suppose."

"Must you blather on so? You're worse that Mrs. Hudson."

Yes, irascible and grouchy. Not like the Doctor (who had been clingy and whiny) save that they were both terrible patients.

"Why don't you go take a very hot shower, while I make the tea," Rose suggested. "Very hot, mind. The heat will help clear out your sinuses and you'll feel better for being clean, I promise."

Sherlock frowned at her, but her posture and expression gave no room for argument and he couldn't find fault in her reasoning anyway. He left the room, muttering quietly to himself. Rose sat down and gave herself over to giggles.

~?~?~?~?~

When Sherlock exited the bathroom having taken a nearly 20-minute shower that had used up all of the hot water in the flat, he did, in fact, feel better. His sinuses were, if not clear, at least moving. He had combed his hair into some semblance of order. He hadn't bothered to shave, but he didn't anticipate kissing Rose anyway, since, as grouchy as he was, he still didn't want her sick.

The thought of climbing back into his dirty clothes hadn't appealed, nor had dirtying further clothes, so Sherlock wrapped himself in his dressing gown and decided that if Rose was scandalized, she could leave. He was not a child who needed to be taken care of, he was an adult who could handle himself through a cold.

He found her in the kitchen still. She'd made tea, but it would be bitter now. She was stirring something on the stove and humming... Sherlock snorted a laugh when he recognized _My Love is Like a Red Red Rose_.

"If you've located your sense of humor in the bath then you might actually like some soup and toast," Rose commented, not bothering to look at him.

"You know that chicken soup does not actually cure a cold?"

"It will make you feel better."

"That is not empirically proven."

"Then sit down and we'll empirically prove it."

"How many times to I have to tell you? A single test does not a proof make."

Rose finally turned to him and she suddenly looked like her mother. "Sit down, Sherlock Holmes, and I will bring you tea, toast and soup. And no matter how nasty you get to me this weekend, I will continue to take care of you until you are over your cold, do you understand that?"

Sherlock had never been able to deny Rose Tyler anything when she looked at him a certain way. He blamed it on lowered resistances due to illness when he meekly set off for the sitting room, ate what she gave him and laid out on the sofa while watching television when she told him to.

And if he fell asleep with his head in her lap and her fingers carding through his hair, he was ill and needed the extra rest.  
  
---


	10. Valentine's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Valentine for all of you. Based on a prompt from Amy-n-the-doctor: Maybe we can see their first Valentine's day together? Rose trying to pick out the perfect present for Sherlock? Maybe something from Rose's side, since we see Sherlock's so much

"Honestly, John, what do you get a man who can tell what you've purchased just by looking at the way you wrapped it?" Rose cradled the phone against her shoulder as she picked up an unlikely looking knick-knack at Henrick's department store. She rarely went to the place- the memories tended to overwhelm her when she did- but she was quite desperate at this point. The following day was 14 February, and she had spent two weeks trying to determine what she would get for the current idiot genius who occupied her time. She'd tried the internet and every shop in town. She'd asked advice of everyone she knew, but Sherlock was unique. Rose remembered a line from an American movie that Mickey had made her watch once. "One of God's own prototypes. A high-powered mutant of some kind never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, and too rare to die." It fit Sherlock to a T.

"If you'll just get him out of the flat, I'd consider it a Valentine's gift to me," John complained. "He's on one of his tears again. Won't sit still. Drinking too much coffee and smoking too many cigarettes, not eating and barely sleeping."

"Is he on a case?" Rose asked, just a bit hopefully. He wouldn't take time off a case for a Valentine's Day dinner with her, so she might have a bit of a reprieve.

"No, he's just a madman," John groused, bursting Rose's hopeful bubble.

"Do you have plans for tomorrow night?" Rose asked, trying to steer the subject away from her failure as a girlfriend to Sherlock. She could, at least, show interest in John's love-life, since his best friend assuredly wouldn't.

"Yeah, her name's Naomi. I'm taking her to that sushi place you told me about."

"Fantastic, tell Yosuke that you're my friend and he'll probably bring you a free pot of sake."

"Will do. So what are you going to do for Sherlock?"

Rose groaned. "Gods, John, I have no idea. I don't know what he could possibly need for his home laboratory, and that's not terribly romantic anyway. Somehow I don't think that a new cat burglar kit would endear me to him- especially since he's most comfortable with his own, and he's always said that it takes ages to break in a new set of lock picks."

John laughed at her.

"You say he hasn't been eating?" Rose asked, an idea suddenly coming to her.

"Yeah," John said, hearing the slight change in her voice that indicated that she might have an idea.

"John... when he eats, what the hell does Sherlock actually _like_ to eat? 'Cause now I have an idea..."

~?~?~?~?~

The following day, John let Rose into the flat in the early afternoon.

"How long has he been gone?"

"About twenty minutes," John answered, following her into the kitchen where she deposited several bags from a number of grocers. "Are you sure about this? This room can be a bit... scary."

"I'm not afraid of the cadaver pieces in the fridge, Dr. Watson," she said in a mocking tone. "Or the microscope on the table... I'm a bit afraid of whatever might be living in this oven," she said, opening the appliance in question. It was in terrible condition- obviously not scrubbed in the entire time the two men had lived in the flat. "That filth could be developing sentience by now."

"Yeah well..." John muttered, "neither of us are much of cooks, you see."

"Clearly. I need scrubbing pads, hot water and soap immediately, Doctor," Rose said, making it a military command that she knew the army captain would obey.

He did, and with alacrity. She had the tools necessary to make her boyfriend's kitchen food-friendly in moments. She was on her knees, scrubbing out the oven, giving instructions to John on getting the rest of the kitchen ready for food prep in minutes. Between the two of them (and quite a bit of military efficiency) they had the kitchen ready for its intended purpose in less than an hour.

"I don't know how you two live with that," Rose said, wiping sweat from her face.

"Like I say, we don't cook much."

"Well, I'm about to cook. Stand back, 'cause there's a very good chance that this is going to go horribly wrong. I'm usually a menace in the kitchen, see? This is the only dish I've ever accomplished with even a modicum of success."

"What is it?"

"Shepherd's Pie, my mum's recipe."

John watched as Rose dug a card and a notebook out of one of her bags. She read through both very carefully several times. Then she started to work. He watched her refer back to the instructions with every step- brown meat, refer to instructions, add onions, refer to instructions, add wine, refer to instructions, add mushrooms, refer to instructions.

After nearly an hour, the flat started to smell of real cooking, something that it had never smelled like before. John was impressed with Rose's success. After nearly two hours, with the completed dish in the oven, Mrs. Hudson poked her head in.

"I smelled something lovely, dears, what's going on?"

"Oh, hello Martha," Rose said with a smile at the older woman. "I couldn't think what to do for Sherlock for Valentine's Day, so I'm making him dinner."

"Oh, isn't that just the sweetest thing?" Mrs. Hudson gushed. "I'm sure he'll love it dear. It does smell lovely."

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. I'll tell you about it when we have tea next week. Do you have any plans for tonight?"

"Oh no, dear. I've sworn of men for now."

"Well," Rose said, cocking her head to the side, "there's always women, if you like."

Mrs. Hudson seemed to give that comment a moment's thought, which fact caused John's eyebrows to shoot up. "I don't think so," Mrs. Hudson finally said. "I got a look at a lot of girls when I worked at that nightclub, and I just don't think it does anything for me. I've a device if I ever need anything, runs on batteries you see..."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John nearly shouted, not wanting to hear the rest of this. "I think that's all we needed to know." He glanced over at Rose who was giggling silently and then at Mrs. Hudson who looked shocked at this sudden outburst.

"Well," Rose gasped out when she was finally capable of speech, "as I say, I'll let you know how everything turns out for me tonight."

"Do you suppose I should get some brandy for that conversation, my dear?"

"No," Rose said, continuing to fight back giggles. "I'm sure we'll be fine with the usual."

"All right. If you like," Mrs. Hudson said, sounding slightly disappointed. "Have fun tonight, both of you."

Once Mrs. Hudson left, Rose collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs and howled with laughter.

~?~?~?~?~

Sherlock arrived back at his flat in the early evening. He'd forgotten the date and had planned nothing for Rose, but he hadn't heard from her, so he thought, perhaps, she'd forgotten as well. Or she didn't care about the arbitrary calendar holidays like Valentine's Day. Or she was furious with him for not planning a date with her that she would never speak to him again.

Sherlock shook his head. He'd text her once he changed clothes. He could take her to Angelo's. Even on Valentine's Day, he'd find a place for Sherlock and his plus-one. Sherlock could pretend that he'd made a reservation. That would do. He didn't have a gift for her, but he could improvise something, he was sure.

Stepping into 221, Sherlock could smell cooking. Mrs. Hudson must be brewing some concoction in her rooms. Perhaps she had a date. Whatever it was that she was making, he hoped there were leftovers. His landlady often brought him leftovers after she cooked.

Sherlock ascended the stairs and was shocked to discover that the cooking odors were coming from _his_ flat, not his landlady's. Would John have brought a date over and cooked for her? Surely he would have told Sherlock if he were going to. Had he told Sherlock without him having paid attention? Damn. He hoped he didn't interrupt anything by going into his flat. He'd apologize to John and get out as quickly as possible.

Sherlock slunk into the flat and breathed in the smell of cooking and... Rose's perfume.

"Rose?" Sherlock asked, surprised at the scent.

"In the kitchen. How did you know I was here?"

Sherlock followed her voice. There she was, in his kitchen, which was sparklingly clean as it hadn't been since he and John had moved in. She was wearing a heather-purple dress that hugged her curves and gave a teasing peek of her decolletage without being overt. Her hair was down, and her makeup fresh. She had been waiting for him.

"I could smell your perfume," he answered taking a step toward her.

Rose rolled her eyes. "Date a bloodhound, why don't I?"

Sherlock gave her a small smile. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Making you dinner. I... well... I couldn't think of anything to get you... you know... for Valentine's Day," Rose stammered. "Just... nothing really seemed right. But John said that you hadn't been eating so I thought... well... I thought maybe you'd like a good meal. I guess I could have taken you out to a restaurant or something... 'cause I'm not really much of a cook... but I thought it might be more... well... more special... more intimate, I suppose, if I cooked something for you myself. So I did. It's the only thing I can cook reliably, 'cept toast."

By the end of the speech, she was blushing scarlet to the very roots of her hair. She would not meet Sherlock's eyes and was wringing her hands as though she were confessing her greatest sin.

"Sorry," she muttered, still not looking at him. "Saying it all out loud makes it sound like a pretty stupid idea."

Sherlock stepped up to her then. He placed two fingers beneath her chin and raised her face until she was forced to meet his eyes. Whatever she saw there made her eyes widen in shock.

"It is completely perfect, Rose Tyler," Sherlock said, enjoying the hitch in her breath that came with those words. "Thank you."

He lowered his mouth to hers then. The shepherd's pie was a bit cold when they finally got around to eating it, but neither of them minded very much.


	11. The Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An anonymous Tumblr user with the following prompt: Hi! Just finished all of This Rose is Extra and I was wondering if you would possibly write out that night where Sherlock went to Rose's flat after that one case where someone died right in front of him and Watson.

From her bedroom in the back of the flat, Rose could feel that the air had shifted. Someone was in her space.

She closed the lid of her laptop and set it aside, rummaging for her stunner in her desk drawer as she rose. She was proud of herself for always keeping the hinges on all of her doors well-oiled and so she made no noise as she proceeded up the hallway to her sitting room to confront the intruder.

Upon arriving, she recognized the silhouette, however, and set the weapon down on a side table in her hallway. Though Sherlock occasionally earned a slap from her, he probably didn’t deserve 110 volts of electricity.

"Sherlock?" she voiced, letting him know that she knew he was there.

He turned to face her and Rose gasped. The shadows in the un-lit room threw his face into sharp relief, but even in the dim light she could see his tortured expression.

Rose said nothing, just opened her arms. Sherlock took the invitation and curled himself against her, letting her hold him as he could not hold himself.

Rose was reminded of another tall, lean, dark-haired man who had seen and done things that were so horrible that the weight of his guilt had bowed him. He, like Sherlock in that moment, had learned that when the weight of guilt pressed his stronger frame into the ground, the power of Rose Tyler’s love was enough to hold him steady. She was a safe place in the storm of grief and guilt and madness. She stood steady when the universe battered at the door.

Sherlock shook against her and Rose ran her fingers through his hair, across his shoulders, and over his back. She whispered affirmations and words of comfort and love. He did not hear the words, all he knew was that he was not alone on this night. He did not weep, but he clung to her like a child.

When finally Sherlock was able to stand, Rose was still there. Her eyes held no judgment or anger, merely a gentle understanding. She took him by the hand and sat him at her table while she bustled about her kitchen to make tea. After a few long moments she set a cup of lavender-scented tea in front of him and sat beside him with her own cup, taking his hand in hers and stroking his fingers.

"Does John know where you are?" Rose asked softly after he had taken a sip of the hot, sweet tea.

Sherlock shook his head, not trusting his voice.

"I’ll let him know. He’ll worry, otherwise," she said, gently.

She gave him toast with his tea, admonishing him to eat it when he had been inclined to merely stare at it or crumble it between his fingers. When he had done so she took the plate and his empty cup away, put them into the sink, and took his hand again, leading him like a child to her bedroom. She sat him down on her bed, undressed him to his pants and under-shirt, and pushed him to lay down. She then undressed herself to her knickers and a long t-shirt as well, and settled herself onto the bed beside him.

She pushed him so that he rolled onto his side and cuddled herself up behind him. She had not forced him to speak, not even to ask him to explain his presence in her home. When she wrapped her arms around him, stroking his arm and finally taking his hand in hers to link their fingers together, Sherlock found that he could sleep.

When he woke in the night with a jerk and a cry, she was still there to stroke his hair. She allowed him to rest his head on her chest and fall asleep to the music of her heartbeat and the sound of her tuneless hum.


	12. Needs Must

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **There are some people in the universe that I love a whole hell of a lot. AmyAndTheDoctor (the-doctors-mind-palace on Tumblr) is one of those people. About half a zillion years ago (or four weeks, if you actually 'measure' time with 'figures') she sent me a prompt, and now I am finally FINALLY responding to it.**
> 
> _So this has been running around in my head for awhile: Rose and Sherlock having to sneak around with each other while they were "broken up" and how many times they were almost caught._
> 
> **I'm posting today in honor of Fanfiction Friday, a thing that WhoLockGal has introduced me to recently. I hope everyone enjoys.**

"I thought I meant more to you than that, you cold, heartless, bastard!" Rose's face was flushed and her eyes glittered with anger and tears.

"Control yourself, Rose," Sherlock hissed. "You're making a scene."

"Damn right I'm making a scene, you robot. My life is coming crashing in around my ears and you're dumping me? On your bloody front step?"

"I am a public figure, an occasional member of the police. If you'd think rationally about it and stop being hysterical, you would understand why I can't be involved with someone surrounded by this type of scandal. Now calm down."

_CRACK_

The slap was worthy of Jackie Tyler, and, despite the fact that he had been expecting it, Sherlock was not able to move with it enough to keep it from stinging like mad. When he finally had his head under control again, he turned to see Rose storming off down the street. He glanced to the other end of the street from where the paparazzo had been watching them and was glad to see that his pain was not in vain.

The door to 221 opened and there stood Mrs. Hudson and John, both glaring daggers at him.

"Sherlock, how could you?" Mrs. Hudson shrilled.

"You utter bastard," John growled.

Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh and set to defend to his makeshift family about what he (privately and internally) agreed would have been a terrible decision.

~?~?~?~?~

Rose heard the window in her bedroom open. She smiled slightly. She'd only been back in her flat for 30 minutes, and he was already there, climbing through her window like the hero in some gothic romance (not that he would ever admit to that).

She grabbed her stunner (just in case it wasn't actually him) and walked back to her bedroom. She opened the door a crack to find him brushing invisible dust from his trousers.

"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair," she said softly, leaning into the door jamb. He heard her and turned around. "You all right?" she asked. "Did I hurt you with that slap?"

"Of course not." He was all offended pride at her question.

"Well good," she said, smile sneaking into place. "Though if I had, I might have been convinced to kiss it better."

His eyes lit with interest, and he took a few steps closer to her. "Well, I say of course not. It was a very impressive slap. You have a very good arm, Rose Tyler." By this point he had invaded her space, and she could feel the heat from his body through her shirt.

"Wouldn't want you to be miserable," she said, reaching up and drawing her fingers over the cheekbone she had assaulted.

Sherlock lowered his head, ready to take her mouth in a sweet kiss of forgiveness when there was a pounding on her front door.

"Rose? Rose? Are you home?" It was Jackie's voice and both Rose and Sherlock jumped as though they'd been caught in a compromising position. "The Sun's website says that you and that detective of yours had a row and are broken up. Open up, Rose. I'm here to make tea. I brought chocolate ice cream…"

Jackie continued to pound and talk.

"You should go," Rose said softly. "My neighbors will call in a noise violation if I don't let her in."

"Are you sure you're all right with this?"

"Needs must," she said, sadly.

~?~?~?~?~

Rose was walking down the street when she got a text from an undisclosed number. She frowned when she saw that it was a set of GPS coordinates and a time about twenty minutes from then and no other information.

Rose Tyler was nothing if not curious by nature, and she had never turned down an adventure, so she put the coordinates into her phone's GPS and saw that she would need to either jog or catch a cab to make it. Something about the idea of running toward the unknown (and possibly dangerous) appealed to her that day, even if her hand was empty, so she took off.

She arrived at the coordinates slightly out of breath, but wary and watchful. It was an alley behind a set of warehouses in a dodgy district of London. She checked her watch and her GPS, saw that she was in the right place, just a minute or two early, so she began to look around for clues. After only a moment, however, she heard a low cough from the entrance to the alley.

"You came," Sherlock said, approaching her.

"You know me, can't resist a mystery."

"Are you armed?"

Rose rolled her eyes. "I'm never armed, not in London. You know that."

Sherlock's mouth went thin but, for once, he didn't press the issue. It was a long-standing argument between the pair of them, but he did not want to ruin these few stolen moments.

"So, Sherlock," Rose began, playful light in her eyes as she took another step toward him, "why did you call me here? Need help on a case?"

"While I would never turn down your assistance with a case," Sherlock said, "I do not have one currently. Unless you count the case of how to spend time with my girlfriend after our public breakup without it becoming obvious that said breakup was for show."

"Apparently you've figured a way around that, so good for you. Don't seem to need my help at all."

"Cheeky," Sherlock growled.

Rose grinned and had just lifted to her toes to kiss him when his mobile phone sounded. Sherlock let out an irritated noise and withdrew the device from his pocket.

"It's John," Sherlock said begrudgingly.

"Does he need you?"

"He does. I'm sorry."

Rose smiled sadly. "Needs must."

~?~?~?~?~

Sherlock had an e-mail from a blocked address. All that was in it was the name of a nightclub in the seedier part of London, and the words 'come disguised, 20:00.' He grinned at the challenge issued. He had three hours to become unrecognizable. John was on a date, so Sherlock abandoned the flat for one of his bolt holes in the city where he kept a large supply of costumes and disguise pieces.

Two hours and 45 minutes later, Sherlock entered the little nightclub that smelled of desperation and sour drink looking nothing like himself. His dark curls had been straightened and brushed away from his face to curl slightly at his collar. His skin had been treated with a subtle bronzer to give him a ruddy complexion. His light eyes were hidden behind a pair of brown contact lenses. His cheeks were given fullness by an ingenious device of his own making- it was an orthodontic piece that sat on his back teeth. He could drink around it, but could not eat, and it caused his words to slur slightly, so he only used it when going undercover at a drinking establishment. Finally, he was dressed in a pair of shabby brown trousers, a moth-eaten jumper, and a corduroy jacket that had seen better days.

He scanned the room and found her immediately, not because she looked like herself, but because she was the only woman in the room. Had he not known who would be waiting for him, he would never have recognized her. Her sunny hair was chestnut brown, her makeup was intense, even overdone. Her soft cheeks were highlighted in such a way as to make them more angular, and her mouth was painted a brilliant, bloody red. Few men would be able to look away from that tempting mouth to see the woman behind it, but her clothes were cheap and obvious, two things that the Rose Tyler that Sherlock knew never was.

Sherlock crossed the room and settled on the stool beside her. He got the bartender's attention with a jerk of his head. "I'll have a pint and a refill on whatever the lady is having," he said, waving his hand vaguely in Rose's direction. His careful, educated accents were softened for the night.

"This usually how you pull girls, mate?" Her cockney accents were more distinct than usual as well.

"Don't usually need to pull girls, look at me," he said with a rakish smile.

She rolled her eyes. "Might as well know the name of my benefactor."

"Billy," he said, holding out a hand.

"Marion," she answered, taking his large, cool and in her small, warm one. "Pleasure."

The bartender returned with a pint for Sherlock and a glass of something amber with ice for Rose. Sherlock carelessly tossed a few notes from his wallet at the man, who gathered them up and moved away.

"It's a bit dangerous, you know," Sherlock whispered to Rose.

"'Swhat makes it fun." She picked up her glass and touched it to his before she took a sip.

The pair of them talked carefully with each other. Any time anyone was in earshot, they spoke of the inconsequential things that two people meeting for the first time might say. If they got a moment, however, they exchanged information in quick whispers. It was completely absurd and it sang in Sherlock's blood as these things always did. By the end of an hour, he thought he had, perhaps, smiled more than he had done in a week.

Sherlock stood. "Going somewhere?" Rose (Marion) asked.

"Step outside for a smoke," Sherlock (Billy) answered. "Wouldn't care to join me, would you?"

"Don't mind if I do," she said with a smile. Sherlock offered her his arm and she allowed herself to be escorted from the room.

When they stepped outside, Sherlock led them to an alleyway that he could tell from the number of spent butts on the pavement had been used for this purpose for years. He did, in fact, draw out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and offered one to Rose. To his surprise, she took one, and even allowed him to light it for her, though on her first drag she came away coughing.

"Sorry," he murmured, rubbing her back. "They're gaspers, nothing nice."

"Lord," she wheezed. "Been years since I smoked, I can tell. Nasty habit, shouldn't pick it back up." She tossed the almost whole cigarette to the ground and stepped on it. Sherlock kept his, however, and smoked it as they stood in the quiet dark as London throbbed around them.

"Did you have any plans for tonight?" Sherlock asked, when his cigarette was finished.

"No. Just wanted to see you. I miss you."

He turned to her. "I miss you too, Rose."

He leaned down and kissed her. She tasted of scotch, and he tasted of cigarette smoke, and neither of them much liked the flavours, but it had been too long, and beggars could not be choosers in this moment. Her hands were in his dark, straight hair, and his hands spanned her back, pulling her into him. They were all desperation and want and were rapidly degenerating into behaviour unbecoming of even this debauched piece of the city when both of their mobile phones went off.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said like an imprecation when he checked his readout.

"Torchwood," Rose said, glancing at her own.

"I don't want to go."

"Needs must."


	13. His Coat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **This is a prompt from Tumblr user Kobemo33:**
> 
> _**First, Rose wearing Sherlock's coat. I keep wondering what Sherlock would think/feel about seeing her in something that was so patently his.** _
> 
> **I've no idea why this turned into a Christmas fic in May, but there you have it. Pretend we're traveling with the Doctor and it can be Christmas whenever we want!**
> 
> **Happy Fanfiction Friday, everyone!**

For once, it had snowed on Christmas in London. John had planned another get-together at Baker Street, but this one was on Boxing Day night rather than Christmas Eve, since everyone who would have been invited to Baker Street was invited to the Tyler's Estate for a party on the 24th.

The tree was covered in fairy lights, the fire roared, the champagne flowed and everyone glittered. For one of Jackie's parties, the guest list was small. She said it was just family, but she'd allowed Rose to invite Sherlock, John, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Greg. Also, all of Rose's Torchwood team was there as well as Mickey's grandmother, Rita-Anne and Martha Jones, his girlfriend. Rita-Anne had come in leaning heavily on Mickey's arm, clearly no longer very ambulatory. She'd been given a seat in the midst of the party and had not been asked to move since.

Sherlock and Ianto were talked into playing carols- Ianto on the piano and Sherlock on a violin that Pete kept in the music room. Sherlock had not been best-pleased with the instrument, and had spent nearly 30 minutes moaning about it while he tuned. John had tried to get him to stop, but Rose had merely smiled indulgently.

When finally everyone was singing, Sherlock learned that Pete was nearly tone-deaf and Jackie sang too loud after her third glass of wassail. Ianto and Jake could sing a beautiful duet together if they could ever agree on a song. Gwen's voice had a glorious range and could hit all of the notes in _Oh Holy Night_. Rose had a sweet voice, if untrained and could make _Oh Come, Oh Come, Emmanuel_ into a haunting tune if allowed. The group sang _The Holly and the Ivy_ and _Good King Wenceslas_ and _Silent Night,_ before Sherlock gave up on the violin. When it was just down to Ianto on the piano, he started to play more modern songs, finally settling on _All I Want for Christmas is You_. The song was sung with a great deal of mugging and laughter among the group. Tony Tyler asked for _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer_ and was obliged as he would be sent to bed shortly.

After the carols, Jackie some music on the stereo and there was dancing and talk and more wine and food. Sherlock had taken up a post by one of the walls as his tolerance for socialization was coming to an end. He noticed quickly, however, that Rose was no longer in the room. He had watched her dance with her father and with John, but he had not asked her to dance with him, fool that he was. He seemed preternaturally attuned to her position and quickly located her on the balcony that he could see through the windows. She was wearing a red, satin gown with gold accents and with her glowing golden hair and unconstrained energy, she looked like a living flame. That likeness to a flame would not keep her warm in thin satin in the falling snow however, so Sherlock went to the coat room before venturing outside. When he looked at the offerings, he could not recognize which was Rose's, so he merely grabbed his own long navy coat and carried it outside with him.

"Haven't had snow on Christmas since I was a kid," she said, not looking around at him as he came out to her. "There was one time, a few years back... but it wasn't really snow. I had snow on Christmas in Cardiff with Dickens, but that was before I was even born."

Sherlock didn't ask her to explain, he merely draped his coat over her shoulders. "I thought you might be cold."

She didn't acknowledge the gift of the coat save to stick her arms through the sleeves, but when he leaned against the balcony railing beside her, she bumped her shoulder into his and leaned her head on his arm. She looked up at the stars. "Can't see as many of them in London as you can out here. Look at them. They're beautiful."

They were, Sherlock thought. They were more beautiful as white diamonds reflected in the dark gold of her eyes, however. He could not say why, but it was affecting him to see her wrapped in his long coat. It was too big on her and might brush the ground if she were not in heels. She pulled it close around her and it wrapped her up, kept her safe and warm and close. Sherlock had an idea that it would smell of her subtle perfume- orange blossoms and jasmine- like his flat did after she'd been there. He would sometimes find himself sniffing the sitting room at his and John's Baker Street digs like a bloodhound to catch her scent, and if he could not, he would send her a text inviting her over, so that it would come back.

He watched her bury her nose in the collar for a moment.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Smells like you," she sighed. "Love that smell. Like coffee and dust and chemicals."

That odd sensation under his heart that always seemed to crop up when she was nearby was back. The one that made it feel like he couldn't get a deep breath unless he got just a bit closer to her- ideally, touching her.

"Dance with me, Rose Tyler," he said, on impulse.

"No music," she said, with a grin that had her tongue tucked into the corner.

"I've music in my mind, just follow along," he said, smiling and taking her hand in his large one and pulling her into a waltz hold.

He lead her over the balcony, his hand under his own coat and on her waist over fiery red satin. She followed every step like a dream, allowing him to lead. Once he had decided to learn, Sherlock had become not only proficient by quite excellent at dancing and her toes were in no danger from his black shoes.

When finally they stopped, Rose noticed for the first time that the skin of his hands that she could see was raised in goosebumps.

"You're cold."

"I am a bit, yes."

"Let's go back inside then, foolish man," she said with a grin.

Sherlock would be sorry to see her shed his coat, but he had to agree that he couldn't stay outside much longer. She opened the door and allowed him to proceed her in, but grabbed his hand on the threshold.

"Look up," she whispered.

He did so and saw mistletoe on the frame of the door.

"Mistletoe," he said, stupidly.

"Probably full of Nargles," she said, smiling.

"What?"

"Never mind, just kiss me, Sherlock Holmes, before you turn into an icicle."

He did.


	14. Paparazzi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Another prompt from Tumblr user kobemo33:**
> 
> Thinking about all of the Doctor and Rose's adventures that went a little pear shaped made me think of this…Rose and Sherlock working together on a case (one of hers or his, doesn't matter) that results in photographic evidence of one or both of them in a funny and/or somewhat embarrassing situation. It could make a great addition to Sherlock's scrap book and something for their friends to tease them about.
> 
> **Happy Fanfiction Friday, everyone!**

Sherlock glared at the lurid red-top that was laid beside his morning tea. On the front was a picture of Rose and himself covered in what looked like green Jell-O, her head thrown back in a riotous laugh, John and Mickey standing to the side, completely clean and looking amused at the pair of them. He was laughing in the picture as well and looking at Rose with an expression of open affection that looked rather daft and soppy.

Sherlock growled and balled the paper up in his fist and threw it across the room. It was an invasion of his privacy and Rose's and, besides that, he looked like a besotted idiot.

His phone chimed and he saw that it was Mycroft. Loath though he was to talk to anyone at that moment, he needed a distraction from his fury just now.

"What?" he barked into the phone.

"Temper, Sherlock," Mycroft drawled, maddeningly. "Have you seen the papers this morning?"

"Which papers?" Sherlock asked. The only paper he'd seen was the tabloid, and Mycroft didn't read those.

"The ones that have you looking like a puppy at your latest goldfish," Mycroft sneered.

Sherlock jabbed the 'end call' button on his phone with excessive violence. He had no patience for his brother's dramatics today. If the man needed him on a case, he could damn well text.

Just as Sherlock was about to throw himself onto the couch, his phone rang again. He glanced at the screen, expecting to see Mycroft's name pop up again, but instead his mother's number glowed at him.

No.

Absolutely not.

He simply did not have it in himself to speak to his mother at this time. He accessed his mental calendar to reassure himself that it was not Mother's Day, her birthday, hers and his father's anniversary, his own or Mycroft's birthday, and hit the 'ignore' button on his phone without guilt.

Without _much_ guilt anyway.

Ten minutes later (as he expected, the woman could practically talk for England) his phone chimed again. He looked at the readout and, as suspected, it was a voicemail from his mother. He sighed and pressed play.

"Hello Sherlock, dear, it's Mummy!" Sherlock rolled his eyes. As though he could not read a mobile phone readout. "I saw you in the paper this morning with that lovely Tyler girl. You two look just so sweet together. I'm so pleased that you've found someone- you look happy, dear. I've worried about you in the past, but I'm just thrilled to see how happy you're looking now."

"Good god, woman," Sherlock growled at the phone. "Get to the bloody point."

"When are you going to bring her around to meet your father and me?"

Sherlock blew out a breath. He'd thought that might have been it. The answer, in his mind was _never_.

"We'll be in London in a few weeks to visit your aunt you know. We could all go see a show. I hear they're doing Much Ado About Nothing soon with that very handsome actor from the telly, we could all go see it together. You could invite your flatmate as well, if you'd like."

Sherlock rolled his eyes again- his mother knew that he simply did not do that sort of thing. Even if he did know that Rose would enjoy seeing the play, it would not be he that saw it with her.

"Well, I'll let you go now, darling. Give your father's and my love to that girl of yours, and to Mycroft if you speak to him. I love you, dear." And finally she rang off.

Almost as though it had been waiting for the end of the message, a text alert came up on his phone from Mickey Smith.

_Nice picture in the rags this morning- very cute. Better shot of me than you, but Rose looks better than any of us. ;-)_

_~The Idiot_

Sherlock growled at his phone again. Why did everyone insist on claiming that it was a good picture or that it was (worst of all) _cute_?

His mobile sounded again, and Sherlock gave serious consideration to simply throwing the device out the window, but it was too important to his work to do such a thing and, when he glanced at the display, he was pleased for the first time that morning.

Lestrade would have work for him, not ridiculous gossip about the tabloids.

"You'll never guess whose happy face greeted me at the newsagents where I get my coffee, Sherlock." Lestrade's response to his curt greeting was enough for Sherlock to end the call and turn his mobile completely off. Clearly this was not a day for working.

Approximately an hour later, Sherlock had managed to make a small amount of progress on an examination of the ash of a new type of Japanese cigarette when Mrs. Hudson entered.

"Sherlock, I just wanted to ask if you'd seen…" she began but, upon noticing the pages of the red-top crumpled and scattered about the room, she stopped. "Well," she said with a smirk, "it seems that you have. I thought it was a lovely picture of the pair of you."

Sherlock, whose temper had finally been given a few minutes to cool, was able to answer without snarling, but only just.

"Mrs. Hudson, it is a photograph of Rose and myself completely covered in green muck. There is nothing _'lovely'_ about it, and I wish people would stop insisting that there is."

"Oh, but it is lovely," she argued gently. "Look at Rose there- she's so pretty when she laughs."

In his mind, Sherlock had to agree. Rose was beautiful when she laughed, and the photo had managed to capture the brilliance and vivacity in her face- unusual enough in that type of photograph. However, that was not the point.

"It remains a picture of her covered in something disgusting. I have no doubt that Rose is mortified by this."

Mrs. Hudson gave her cackling laugh, much to Sherlock's surprise. She patted his shoulder, still laughing and said, "oh Sherlock, you might be very surprised." And, with that Delphic pronouncement, she left.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and reapplied himself to his ash. Shortly thereafter, he heard John's footfalls on the front stair. Sherlock turned to greet his flatmate when he saw that the man carried…

"Et tu, John?" Sherlock asked, dejected.

"Oi, it's a good picture of me. I'd have missed it if Rose hadn't called though."

"Rose called you about it? And she wasn't upset?"

"Upset? She seemed thrilled. She said they'd put it up in her office since it was her and Mickey, even if it was your case. It's a great picture of the pair of you."

Sherlock was uncomprehending. John should understand, but it seemed that even _he_ liked the picture. "John, the pair of us is covered in slime!"

John shrugged. "The pair of you look great. Rose looks gorgeous, even covered in slime, and you look… happy. You don't look like that often."

Sherlock frowned again at the picture. Rose did, naturally, look beautiful- head thrown back, eyes glittering, mouth wide and hair shining. The green slime didn't detract from her beauty at all.

It was, however, his own face on which he focused now. He still thought he looked daft, but it was a good look- he looked a bit younger than his years, a bit lighter. Less like a junkie, and more like a man who might be familiar with what his own smile looked like in the mirror.

"John? Sherlock?" Rose's voice was on the stair and her light steps were ascending. "You boys around? I brought lunch."

"Yeah, we're here," John answered, and she entered a moment later carrying a bag that smelled of fish and chips.

"Oh good, you've seen it," she said, noting the paper that the pair of them were looking at. "Tony thinks we're just about the coolest ever for getting into the paper. All mum can talk about is how she's glad that at least I don't wear designer clothes to work. Dad thinks it's brilliant. Mickey too."

"And you?" Sherlock asked.

"Me? I love it. Don't have many pictures of you smiling, you know. Most times when the press is around you're glowering like it's the end of the world. I'm keeping a copy of this one, me. Why? Don't you like it?"

Sherlock glance down at the picture again. He was covered in muck, yes, but he looked happy. He was surrounded by people who cared about him. He'd just finished a difficult and satisfactory job.

"What's not to like?" he asked.


	15. Orion and Metrope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **A prompt from an anonymous Tumblr user:**
> 
> _Hey! I know you're busy with the next part of your amazing Roselock series (the anticipation is killing me, almost keeled over reading the little tie bit you shared), but I just thought if you could use a prompt if you wanted a little mini break. I was thinking something along the lines of Rose and Sherlock having a little row and then making up._
> 
> **(For those of you who don't follow me on Tumblr- I do occasionally post previews and teaser chapters)**
> 
> **And so, for your Fanfiction Friday pleasure!**

"Look at these photos from the Hubble Telescope, Sherlock, aren't they beautiful?"

Sherlock glanced at the screen of Rose's laptop for a moment and then back at his violin which he was re-tuning for the third time that day. He had gotten it into his head to determine whether the music he played was objectively better with gut, nylon, steel, or aluminium strings. Rose had rolled her eyes at his explanation of his plans and had done her best to distract him for several hours.

"Why do you insist on following NASA's updates?" Sherlock asked. "You're never leaving the planet again."

Sherlock felt Rose go still beside him and knew in an instant that he had said something wrong.

"It's just," Sherlock began, trying to back-track to safer ground, "you know I have no interest in those things and yet you insist upon sharing them and talking about them. I just don't see the point if you're planet-bound."

"You don't see the point because it doesn't interest you," Rose said, a hint of bitterness and ice in her voice.

She was less right than she knew, Sherlock thought. He had tried, on several occasions, to learn something about the stars. He loved the way she looked on the rare occasions that they got out of London and could see them- she would point out constellations and planets and could tell the myths and legends from those stars. It made her glow. So Sherlock had picked up a book or two of astronomy, but the thought of discussing it with her- of asking a question that the Doctor would have known the answer to and having her compare him unfavourably to the alien kept him from putting much effort into the pursuit of the subject.

"I suppose you're right." Sherlock did not look up from his violin strings as he continued. "I don't see the point in knowing about things that happen in places that we'll never see, or the physics of planets that we'll never go to."

"I've been to planets where the laws of physics might well have been wrought from the mind of a madman."

"Yes, and you're not going back to them, like I say."

"And what if I were?"

Sherlock might have given himself whiplash with the speed at which he looked up from his work. He looked her face over- there was no sparkle in her eye, no hint of a smile at her lips. She was pale and drawn and more angry than Sherlock thought he had ever seen her.

"You... are you leaving?"

Rose looked at him for a long moment. "No," she admitted. "But I could. I could hop the next ship to pass through and go. You know that, right?"

"You'd leave... London? Earth? Your family and friends?" _Me_ , he thought, but did not say.

Rose stood and walked to the other side of the room, apparently unable to contain the energy that he could sense buzzing beneath her skin any longer.

"I love it here, you know," she said, and she wasn't quite shouting, but her voice wasn't quite controlled either. "I love my job at Torchwood, and I love my friends and I love my parents and I love..." she hesitated for a fraction before saying, "my life. But I miss it, Sherlock. I miss the stars. I miss the universe. Can you even begin to comprehend how small and stifling London feels when you've drunk wine at the centre of the Rose Nebula?"

"You... want to leave?"

"Yes!" Now she was shouting and her voice very nearly broke. "I want to be somewhere that my mother can't call and tell me and tell me that I'm mad for wanting to do the job that I'm very good at and love. I want to be somewhere that the sky isn't choked by smog. I want to go somewhere that there isn't some idiot man reminding me that I'll never get to go anywhere again..." With this final statement, she lost control and began to weep in earnest.

Sherlock set aside the violin and rose to go to her. He tried to put his arms around Rose, but she flinched away from his touch and that small movement broke his heart more completely than anything else she could have done.

He rallied, pushing the pain behind a door in his mind for another time. He took her arm and led her to a seat, and gently pushed her into it before retreating to the kitchen.

Rose sniffled and tried to bring herself under control. In truth, she did not often think of travelling the stars again. She was happy in her life in London with Mickey and her family and Sherlock. It was the way he had said it: like it were an incontrovertible fact that she would never return to the stars which had made her angry. It was like the Doctor telling her that something was impossible, or every person she'd known growing up who had told her that she'd never make it off the Estate because she was just a chav and would always be a chav.

He was in the kitchen running water and moving through the room, she could hear him. She knew what he was up to- he was making tea. He always made her a cup of tea when he apologized. Since the beginning back in Devon, an apology was accompanied by a cup of tea and Sherlock attempting to figure out what he had to apologize for before she explained it to him. It had become a routine between them- tea and talk. She wasn't sure she wanted the talk just at that moment, however, so she silently got up, took her coat, and left without a word.

In the kitchen, Sherlock heard her go. He set his kettle down with shaking hands and sat at his kitchen table. He stared into the middle distance and wondered if he had finally done it- driven her off completely. A voice in his mind (that sounded a bit like Mycroft at age nine, and a bit like Jim Moriarty, and a bit like Irene Adler) told him that it had only ever been a matter of time before he'd run her off, and here was the proof.

An hour later, Rose, feeling as though she had her head on straight again, returned to 221B with a cup of coffee and one of tea from the café below in hand. She entered the sitting room to find Sherlock seated tailor-fashion on the floor with three books of astronomy beside him and his laptop open on the coffee table with the same Hubble pictures that she'd tried to show him on the screen.

"Thought you could use a coffee," she said softly, setting the cup down at his right hand and resuming her place on the sofa. "New case?" she aked.

"Just something that seemed… worth knowing," he answered without looking up.

"Right." After a long moment, she whispered, "thank you."

Almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

After a very long moment, where they both sipped at their hot drinks, and Sherlock turned a few pages in his book, he spoke again. "I'm glad you came back."

Rose smiled slightly. "I'll always come back."

Another long, tense moment passed and then, finally, Sherlock looked up to meet her eyes. "What does it look like when a star dies?"

Finally, Rose smiled fully. It was an apology, and it was an acknowledgment, and it was all right.

"Takes millions of years unless something artificial gets in the way, like a gravity field. I watched the sun die, actually… well, I wasn't paying as much attention as I should have, but I did see some of it. It's beautiful and very terrible."

"You weren't paying attention?"

"Worlds to save, you know how it gets." Rose knew that Sherlock would not want to talk about the Doctor- he never did. She could make an apology as well. "What did you learn from your violin experiment?"

"Ah, that." He glanced over at the instrument he had replaced on its stand by the window. "Difficult to manage without someone to listen to the music, you see."

"Of course. But… well… I'm here now. You could play for me?"

And so it was that Sherlock played his apology to Rose on the violin, and she offered her in musical criticism, and then they made plans to leave London one weekend during the summer to see the stars.


	16. 221B Baker Street: Prime Universe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **My lovely friend and Tumblr user RoseTylerCastiel had a birthday recently, which I missed, and I promised her a RoseLock fic for it.**
> 
> **This is an odd idea I've had in my head for a little while now- what if Rose and Sherlock visited the Sherlock Holmes museum while they were in the Prime universe?**
> 
> **This story takes place between chapters 25 and the middle of 27 of** **_Holmes and Tyler are Dead_ ** **. Mostly thought it's an excuse for fluff, silliness, and UST.**

"Do defenders of the Earth ever get a lie-in?"

Rose looked, blearily, over the rim of her coffee cup to see Sarah Jane looking rather disgustingly cheerful for the hour. The older woman was dressed in a smart blouse and trim jeans where Rose was still in her yoga pants and the vest in which she had slept. She'd made the effort to put on a bra, but not to comb her hair or bother with makeup.

"Have you any idea when I went to bed last night?" she grumbled into her tea.

"Yes, actually, which is why I'm surprised to see you up at 6. I was being serious, you know."

Rose sighed. "Sorry," she said, leaning her head against the wall at her side. "The answer to your question is 'sometimes, but not today.'"

Rose did not mention that she was only awake because at 4, she had regained consciousness, gasping over visions of the Doctor's body being consumed by flames. She had tried to stay in bed and sleep, the comforting warmth of Sherlock's body beside her, but every time she tried, the visions returned, or the remembered visions of Sherlock's body lying broken on the pavement in front of St. Bart's hospital in another universe and another timeline.

She had finally given up, crawling out of bed at 5:30 and moved through the Saturday-silent UNIT offices to the kitchen where she had brewed coffee because tea wouldn't cut it.

"Do reporters ever get a lie-in?" Rose asked back to her friend who smiled good-naturedly.

"Reporters, maybe, but mothers of teenagers never do."

Rose glanced around quickly and noted Luke's absence.

"Is he at school?"

Sarah Jane rolled her eyes. "It's Saturday, sweetheart."

Rose shook her head. "Right, right. I knew that."

Sarah Jane smiled and walked over to the coffee pot. "He's actually looking for your friend."

"He'll have to wake him. Sherlock is one defender of the earth who did have a lie-in this morning."

"Luke will take care of that. We're taking the pair of you into the city."

Rose sighed. "Sarah…"

"Don't tell me about how you've too much to do. I got a call from the Brig- he says you're being quite short-tempered and you're stuck. You can take a day in the sunshine. It'll help your brain work better and you know it."

Rose rolled her eyes, but couldn't keep back a smile. "Yes, _mother_."

"If you think that'll put me off, you've another thought coming."

Rose's reply was interrupted by a clattering at the door. Both women looked up to find a rumpled and bleary-eyed Sherlock being pulled into the kitchen by a bouncing and laughing Luke.

"Good morning, Sherlock," Rose said, sending him a cheery grin with her tongue caught between her teeth. "Coffee?"

Before Sherlock could speak, Luke was off and chattering.

"You shouldn't be Sherlock Holmes, you should be Sam Spade! He was much cooler!"

Sherlock met Rose's eyes with an eyebrow raised in question. Rose shrugged her shoulders. Luke noticed and shook his head.

"Haven't you two read the _Maltese Falcon_?"

"Sorry," Rose said, shaking her head. "I wasn't really the best student back when I was in school."

"I don't read much fiction," Sherlock said, making his way over to the coffee pot.

"Sam Spade was awesome though. An American Gumshoe. Shoot first and ask questions later like the movies! Those stories are way more exciting than the Holmes stories. So what do you say? Change your code name?"

Sherlock shook his head at the boy's enthusiasm. "Really, I'm rather attached to Sherlock, I'm afraid. I've gotten used to it."

Luke sat down across from Rose and crossed his arms in front of his chest, pouting slightly. Rose hid her giggles behind her coffee cup, and met Sarah Jane's fondly indulgent expression as she smoothed her son's hair.

Sherlock took the seat beside Rose and causally draped an arm across the back of her chair as he sipped his coffee. The casual intimacy of the gesture made Rose smile into her coffee. She glanced up and saw Sarah Jane looking at her with a warm, maternal expression.

"I was thinking we might play tourist today, if that's all right with you," Sarah Jane said, briskly. "Actually, I was thinking we might go to the Sherlock Holmes museum on Baker Street, since you insist on using the name. Thought it might be fun."

Rose turned to Sherlock, eyes wide with surprise and concern. Sherlock pursed his lips and considered, as he watched her.

He didn't often like thinking of himself as a fictional character, though they had been in this universe long enough for him to get used to the sniggers and rolled eyes any time his given name was said aloud. He couldn't deny, however, that he was curious about the essential differences between himself, a creature of the 21st century, and this fiction from the 19th.

Finally, he looked at Rose and shrugged his right shoulder and nodded. Rose shrugged back and turned to find the two Smiths watching the pair of them communicate silently with great amusement.

"So… was that a yes?" Luke asked.

Rose dissolved into giggles and Sherlock sighed. "That was a yes," he said. "We'll have to get dressed first, if you can be that patient?"

Luke huffed in irritation, but when Rose directed him to the small selections of breakfast cereals and the makings of hot chocolate, he seemed content enough to give the adults their time.

Rose and Sherlock carried their second cups of coffee to their room to prepare for the day.

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom after his shower to find Rose dressed but frowning at her reflection as she twisted her arms behind her head in an attempt to braid her hair. He glanced at her progress as he selected a shirt from the wardrobe.

"It's crooked, do you know that?"

Rose sighed and pulled her work out. "Never mind, I give up."

"What are you trying to do, exactly?"

"I was trying to French braid it, but since I can't seem to do that without getting it crooked, I'll just leave it. It's not important."

Sherlock moved behind Rose and buried his fingers in her hair to loosen any tangles.

"Sherlock?" Rose asked.

He did not say anything, merely began to section and plait her hair.

Rose was not sure how to respond. She had always had a sensitive scalp- a man running his fingers through her hair had always been a weakness of hers, and now Sherlock was arranging her hair with his clever fingers, brushing and smoothing and not even once pulling. The feel of his hands in her hair was heaven, and she felt her eyes drift shut as he continued down the back of her head and to her neck.

When Rose shivered, Sherlock glanced up into the mirror to find her face relaxed and her eyes closed, her lips parted just slightly. As he catalogued these things, he noted that her breathing was deeper and her limbs seemed to have loosened. He knew the signs by now- Rose was becoming aroused.

Sherlock smirked to himself, a flash of purely male pride at the fact. If arranging her hair pleased her so, Sherlock thought he might be willing to become Rose's personal hairdresser.

"Perfectly straight," Sherlock announced after another moment, brushing his hand down the smooth braid that he had created, and then brushing aside the bottom to give himself access to the join of her shoulder and neck, where he placed a single kiss. He wanted to do more (wanted to do something that would muss the hair that he had just made so smooth), but the Smiths were waiting on them.

Rose's eyes blinked open and met his in the mirror as he began doing up the buttons on his shirt.

"Where did you learn to do that?"

Sherlock shook his head and brushed his hand through the air. "Oh, you know. Around."

Rose shook her head and glanced back into the mirror, taking in her own flushed face. "Blimey," she muttered.

~?~?~?~?~

Sarah Jane sighed. Sherlock and Rose might be adults, but they could be as foolish and exhausting as Luke and his friends.

When they had emerged from their room, dressed and ready but looking guilty and embarrassed, Sarah had chosen to ignore it, trusting the pair of them to be circumspect around her son. Save for a slight blush that she hadn't quite understood when Sarah Jane had complimented Rose's hairstyle, they had been, for the most part, but it didn't stop the pair of them being silly.

When they had arrived at the museum, the pair of them had gone eerily silent for a long time, just taking in the building. After a long moment, Sherlock had leaned down to murmur something into Rose's ear that Sarah Jane couldn't hear, but Rose had nodded and taken his hand.

After that, the pair of them were jumpy as cats, and as silly as children. Rose had started giggling when they'd found the wall with bullet-holes in the shape of the letters "VR" on the wall.

"Victoria Regina, the queen at the time," Luke had read from the plaque in front of the exhibit.

"A bit more dignified than a smiley face," Rose had said to Sherlock softly. Sarah Jane had a feeling she wasn't supposed to have heard that, and ignored it, even as Sherlock glared at Rose.

The pair of them had stopped in the sitting-room area of the flat for a long moment, Rose biting her lower lip, and Sherlock wide-eyed. Sherlock had shuddered and tugged Rose's hand to pull her away from the sight, though Sarah Jane had no idea what had so disturbed the pair of them.

They had bent over one plaque, together, reading, only to have Rose straighten in a fright and pull Sherlock away from it, shaking her head. After that, they hadn't read anything, just looked and fidgeted.

Sarah Jane gave up on the pair of them when they had suddenly turned into children in the gift shop. Rose had placed a deerstalker on Sherlock's head and started giggling. Sherlock had then picked up one of the meerschaum pipes and the outsized magnifying lens and struck a silly pose that had sent both Luke and Rose into hysterics.

Sarah Jane was surprised. Had her own perceptions of Sherlock Holmes not been so shaped by Basil Rathbone, she might have seen before that this young man did fit the Conan Doyle description well- tall and lean with distinctive facial features and able, clever hands. With the accoutrement of the character, it became suddenly clear why he and Rose had chosen that particular _nom de guerre_.

Sarah wondered, idly and not for the first time, what he was actually called.

~?~?~?~?~

"Note to self," Rose said, back in their room that evening, "don't go places where you might learn the future."

She had been somewhat gratified to know that Sherlock Holmes had actually survived Reichenbach Falls in the stories and had returned, but she was worried that perhaps they had learned too much.

"Noted," Sherlock said from across the room as he unbuttoned his shirt.

"You're still preening because you've got a whole museum devoted to you, aren't you?"

"I am not _preening_ about some romantic notion of what detecting is like, poorly put together by some… _spiritualist_ from the 19th century."

Rose hummed noncommittally.

"I don't wonder if I shouldn't take up a pipe though. Much more eloquent than cigarettes."

"Don't you dare, you've quit smoking, remember?"

In truth, Sherlock 'quitting' only meant that he only smoked when he was at his most stressed and strung-out, but Rose would not let him backslide.

"As you say," he said, easily, which made Rose glare at his back.

Sherlock turned toward her then, smiling faintly. He had removed his shirt, belt, shoes and socks and Rose's breath caught at the sight of him- she still had not gotten used to it.

"I learned something fascinating today, however," he said, voice low and silken as he began to move toward her.

"Dammit, Sherlock, if you read more of those plaques…"

"Not about me," he interrupted. "About you."

"Me?" Rose said, breathlessly as he continued to advance on her.

"Oh yes." He sank onto the bed beside her and turned her so that she faced away from him. He then began to unwind the braid he had so carefully constructed earlier in the day, tangling his fingers in her silken hair and revelling in the soft, sweet noise she made in the back of her throat as he did.

"Something I'd like to investigate much further," Sherlock said softly.


	17. Eye of the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Because I love her and think she is just one of the best people in the world, and because tomorrow she turns 25, this is for my dear friend the-doctors-mind-palace, who asked for RoseLock fluff for her birthday.**
> 
> **My only apology is how short it is...**

It had been somewhere between 12 and 20 hours since last Rose, Mickey, and Sherlock had stopped for a rest and all three were fraying at the edges. It was long past time for them to sleep and Sherlock stared blankly at the featureless wall in front of him and considered just shutting his eyes where he sat, not waiting for Rose to return from the shower.

It would be pleasant to just drop off, but the thought of going to sleep without taking at least a moment to revel in the warmth and comfort of having her in his arms repelled him, so he forced himself to rouse.

Sherlock opened his laptop in an attempt to find something to keep him occupied and awake long enough to see Rose back and, without thinking, found himself scanning through his music collection looking for... he couldn't have said. It wasn't until he landed somewhere in his collection of Mozart that he settled and hit 'play' to listen to the master.

Sherlock had always felt some affinity with Mozart- bright, young genius forced to translate his depth of feeling into something external, lest it drive him mad. Mozart had chosen sex and music. Sherlock had chosen puzzles and drugs. But it wasn't drugs, not any longer. Now he found his solace in Rose Tyler, Sherlock thought. And that was better.

The door to their shared room opened with a sough and the object of Sherlock's musings stood in the doorway wearing a pair of loose cotton trousers and a silky violet dressing gown, her sunlight hair darkened with water as it curled damply over her towel-covered shoulders. Her face was free of makeup and she looked young and beautiful, and some obscure, old fashioned part of Sherlock cried out to him in that moment.

He stood as she entered the room and allowed the door to swish shut behind her and then, without a word, he took her hand and pulled her to him, into a dance hold that, while not quite accurate for the music issuing tinnily from his laptop speakers, had her pressed against him, just as he wanted. He swayed with her gently then, the tiny room allowing little else in the way of dancing, and as the pain and power of the music swept through him, Rose Tyler was his anchor in the midst.

Rose recalled another man- equally complicated and frustrating at times- who had pulled her into his arms for a dance in an adrenaline (and testosterone)- fuelled moment. This was different, however. Where the last light-eyed, dark-haired man to dance with her had kept his hand in the centre of her back, in pre-watershed space, Sherlock's hand pressed low on her spine, nearly on her bottom, keeping her hips pressed to him. Where before it had been a show of dominance for another man, this was motivated by nothing but desire.

Rose sighed and rested her head on Sherlock's shoulder where she could feel the rumble in his chest as he softly hummed the tune that she did not recognize.

Sherlock rested his cheek on her head, his lips barely grazing her temple, and sighed into the sweet bouquet of her hair and skin- soap and warmth and Rose.

When she sighed in return, the breath ghosted across his throat, and he nearly shivered at the intimacy.

The song ended and, in that timeless space between one and the next, the pair stilled. They did not move away from one another, but remained wrapped tightly- every inch that could touch did. As they stood, both exhausted and in their night-clothes, in a tiny cell of a room, listening to music from poor-quality speakers and not-precisely-dancing, the universe gave them that moment simply to be. All the troubles stopped for that instant between songs, and Rose Tyler and Sherlock Holmes were still.


End file.
